


Phillumeny

by conceptofzero



Category: BioShock
Genre: M/M, Mind Control, WYK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:26:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5815918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptofzero/pseuds/conceptofzero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack wakes without knowing why entirely, only knowing that he needs to be awake now. The reason’s obvious once he’s alert enough to listen and hear the familiar sound of Fontaine’s shoes on Rapture’s floors. He’s coming back.</p>
<p>The door swings open and Jack gets to his feet. He doesn’t want to stand, but he feels the hooks lodged deep in him start pulling hard, forcing him to obey the command. The next hook catches the moment his lays his eyes on Fontaine, forcing Jack to stay still instead of rushing Fontaine and killing him with his bare hands. Jack doesn’t have to hide the contempt on his face.There’s no command against that, so he lets his features set into the usual grim contempt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phillumeny

Jack wakes without knowing why entirely, only knowing that he needs to be awake now. The reason’s obvious once he’s alert enough to listen and hear the familiar sound of Fontaine’s shoes on Rapture’s floors. He’s coming back.

The door swings open and Jack gets to his feet. He doesn’t want to stand, but he feels the hooks lodged deep in him start pulling hard, forcing him to obey the command. The next hook catches the moment his lays his eyes on Fontaine, forcing Jack to stay still instead of rushing Fontaine and killing him with his bare hands. Jack doesn’t have to hide the contempt on his face. There’s no command against that, so he lets his features set into the usual grim contempt.

“And a good morning to you too, Jack.” Frank drawls out, an amused sneer on his face. “You wake up on the wrong side of the ground? Or are you just mad you can’t laze around all day while I get things done?” 

He’s dressed up, looking like he’s just walked back from chairing a meeting, but with who? A bunch of splicers? They’re both trapped down here with no way out, unless the seas dry up. There’s nothing either of them can do except wait for one of them to die, and for all of Frank’s talking, he’s clearly reluctant to give up the one thing that still gives his life meaning. But he acts like there’s more outside of this room, like Rapture still actually matters at all, instead of being the dead empty husk of a city that Jack left in his wake. 

Still, Frank’s looking pleased, just like he always does when he’s found some brand new way to torture Jack. Fontaine’s got a box in his hands, few feet wide, few feet tall, the cardboard starting to sag a little from the humidity. Jack’s already on edge, waiting to see exactly what he’s got for him now. Nothing good. It’s never anything good.

“I know what the problem is. You don’t know what to do with yourself if you ain’t got a job. Back in the lab, between training, you’d sit there with this dopey look on your face. No drive, no ambition. It’s a real shame what they did to you, to make you like this.” And he shakes his head, clicking his tongue like it was Tenenbaum and Suchong who made the decision, and not Frank’s direct orders that crafted exactly who Jack is.

Frank’s looking for a reaction. Jack hasn’t been ordered to talk yet, so he doesn’t, giving him nothing but the usual stony looks. It’s the only thing he’s got still, the ability to look at Fontaine like he’s dog shit on the sole of a shoe. It’s not as good as beating that bald head in, but what else could ever compare with seeing that asshole shut up permanently. 

“But don’t you worry kid, I got you. There’s always work for you, long as I’m around. I brought you something to pass the hours, a little present from me to you.” He pats the box in his arms before he drops it on the floor. It lands with a hollowish thunk and the sound of a bunch of somethings all jostling together inside - soft, like paper, rather than hard. Frank puts his boot on the side and dips it over, lid coming off and the contents spewing out of it. 

Stacks and stacks of matchbooks flow out of it. MANTA RAY LOUNGE the covers read, the letters crowded around the sunrise logo on them. They’re all worn looking, like they’ve been handled. Some have stains on them. Others are creased. Jack thinks on it quick - does he remember seeing a Manta Ray Lounge somewhere? Must be in another part of Rapture, one he didn’t get to before everything went to hell. 

“Would you kindly count out how many matches I got lying on the ground?” Fontaine says and he grins like he’s telling some big joke, and he’s nearly at the punchline. 

Jack feels the tug in his brain, the all too familiar sensation of an order he can’t ignore. He drops to his knees on the floor and starts sorting, picking up the matchbooks and flipping them open to start counting. He’ll just get an idea of how many matches are in each book, then he’ll count the books, multiply and-

Except that won’t work, because the first book he flips open is only half filled - ten matches. The next has five matches - fifteen total. The next has fourteen - twenty nine total. The next has twenty - forty nine total. The next has three - fifty two total. 

He counts, his hands mechanically picking through the huge pile, picking up the books and counting them, tossing the counted books over his shoulder. It’s humiliating and insulting but he can’t resist the command for long - twelve matches, total eighty-three - not a direct command. There were other times, before he was fully aware, when he could resist for a short while and turn his attention elsewhere - nine matches, total one hundred and three.

There’s nothing else he can do in this empty room, except count. 

Fontaine comes up behind Jack, setting a hand on his head. His fingers run through Jack’s hair - eight matches, total one hundred and nineteen - front to back, like he’s petting a dog. It brings a snarl to Jack’s face but he keeps on counting, the job in front of him impossible to stop once he’s started it. “There you go, getting those sums done. They made sure not to make you too dumb, just dumb enough you’d never catch on, ‘til it was too late.” 

Ten matches, total one hundred and forty two. Jack grits his teeth. The fingers in his hair stroke, then tighten and tug, pulling his head back. He lifts his hands higher, so he can still see the total number of matches in the books. Fontaine laughs and Jack looks away briefly, meeting his eyes to shoot daggers up at him, before his eyes are yanked back to the matchbook in his hand - five matches, total one hundred and fifty eight. 

Fontaine keeps his grip in Jack’s hair. He steps around in front of him, planting his feet right in front of Jack. He’s got to bring the matchbooks around Frank, eyes trying to look to the right as he checks each book. Twelve matches, total one hundred and seventy matches. 

“Not much brains in there, but they made sure you could do two things at once,” Frank says, and Jack knows what’s next. His face twists up with fury but he keeps reaching for matchbooks off the floor, even as Fontaine eases down the zipper on his pants. He pulls his cock out. Jack counts the next book - nine matches, total one hundred and ninety four. Fontaine works a thumb into Jack’s mouth and he wants to stop Frank, but he’s got orders not to hurt Fontaine or fight him, and Jack’s got that command in his head, calling him to keep on pawing at the floor. The thumb pushes in and out between Jack’s lips, the pad of it roughly pressing down on Jack’s tongue. “The squints sure worked real hard on putting you together, making you exactly what I ordered up, bits of your father, bits of your mother, bits of me, any bits I wanted.” 

He can’t bend his head down with Frank’s thumb in his mouth. He has to paw at the floor, find the matchbooks by feel, pull them up and flick them open to look at them - twenty matches, total two hundred and twenty five - toss them blindly behind him, into the slowly growing pile. 

Frank takes his hand out of Jack’s mouth, wraps his thick fingers around his cock instead. He holds it near Jack’s face, close so he can’t ignore it even with his eyes pointed to the right. The matchsticks have little green striker heads - seventeen matches, total two hundred and fifty two - and thin paper stems. Frank’s cock is thick and as he strokes it, the head gets flush. The sound’s impossible to tune out. He wants to yank his head away, out of Fontaine’s grasp, but he’s trapped here counting. 

Another booklet. No matches, total two hundred and fifty two. 

Fontaine rubs the head of it against Jack’s lips, running it over his mouth like lipstick. He can smell him, that ugly musky scent that’s always lingering on him - nine matches, total two hundred and sixty five. Jack keeps his jaw clenched, even as Frank runs his cock against the seam of Jack's mouth, pushing in just enough that Jack has no choice but to taste the salty precum. He tries to turn his head a little, more to the right, a better angle to see the matchbooks. Fontaine yanks him back and Jack’s left twisting the books close to see, his face going slowly red with repressed rage. 

“What’s the count?” He demands. Jack doesn’t answer. Fontaine yanks hard on his hair, enough to cause Jack pain and think maybe this time he’ll pull it out. “Would you kindly tell me your count?”

“Total two hundred and seventy eight-” Jack says around the head of Fontaine’s cock. The end’s garbled a little, when Fontaine pushes into Jack’s mouth. He’s never easy or gentle. Those hands grab tight to Jack’s head and he starts pushing in, thrusting into Jack’s mouth. Jack keeps his head straight, his hands groping on the floor. Another booklet. Four matches. Total two hundred and eighty two. He’s got Frank fucking his mouth, and all he can even think about is picking up the matches, counting them, adding them all together. 

Jack keeps doing the command he’s given, even as Frank ruts against him. He does his best to keep his mouth open and his breathing coming through his nose. He shakes as Frank thrusts. Twelve matches, total two hundred and ninety nine. The cock in his mouth is hot and heavy, pushing in deep as Frank can make it go. 

“C’mon kid, use more tongue. We both know you’re better at this. You could suck me off in your sleep,” Frank drawls out, low and crude. He pushes in until he’s got Jack pressed to the root of his cock, the thick head nudging up against the back of Jack’s throat. His hands grasp at more matchbooks, he tries not to choke or gag. Nineteen matches, total three hundred and thirty three. The hand in Jack’s hair pulls again, holding Jack at an awful angle as Frank fucks his mouth. 

It gets harder to get more matchbooks. The easy ones within reach are gone. He has to try get the others, feeling with his fingertips over the floor, even as Frank drives his cock in and out. Jack’s drooling, spit starting to drip out of his mouth. He has to lean forward, nose tight against Frank’s paunch as he presses his palm into the floor, looking for books. Jack finds one, checks it - eight matches, total three hundred and fifty two. 

“Never had any hooker suck me good as you do,” Frank laughs, the sound as nasty as he is. Jack tries not to listen, but he can’t entirely tune him out either. Even with the command marching through his mind, he feels it - the underlying structure of his mind is always waiting to hear from him, always listening in case he’s got something important to say. Nine matches, total three hundred and sixty seven. He’ll never be free. Even after Frank dies (if he dies before Jack), his mind will always be there, always tuned in like a radio station that he can’t shut off. Sixteen matches, total three hundred and eighty three. Two matches, total three hundred and eighty five. The cock in his mouth twitches hard. Four matches, total three hundred and eighty nine- “It ain’t your mother who gave you that one. She gave you the lips, but the sucking? You know who that really came from, don’t you?” 

Jack struggles to reach another book. He shoves himself as far forward as he can without pushing Fontaine back. The cock’s shoved in the back of his throat and he gags, even as he reaches for more books. He has to get more books. He needs to. Jack has to count them all. His eyes water and he can barely breathe, but he’s groping away, desperate to feel that square cardboard shape-

Frank steps back, cock sliding out of Jack’s mouth, and Jack pushes forward, into the new space. Through his blurry eyes, he sees the shape of the blue and pink books on the floor, his palm grabbing a stack. He wipes his eyes with his other hand and brings the matchbooks up. Nine matches, total three hundred and ninety four. Thirteen matches, total four hundred and seven matches. Seven matches, total four hundred and fourteen matches. 

Fontaine shoves the head of his cock back between Jack’s lips and leaves it there, resting just on the edge of Jack’s teeth. His hand strokes his cock hard and fast, the wet slick sound of flesh on flesh impossible to ignore. The salty taste of precome fills Jack’s mouth. Six matches, total four hundred and twenty seven. He grabs another handful to go through. 

This one has a phone number scrawled inside of it. Four matches, total three hundred and thirty one. Frank’s groaning and grunting, his cock throbbing inside Jack’s mouth. Nine matches, total four hundred and forty. Jack’s got his free fist clenched tight, his face beet red with anger and arousal. His pants are too tight. Fourteen matches, total four hundred fifty four. “Tell me the count-” 

Eight matches- “Total four hundred and sixty two-” He mumbles around Fontaine’s cock, mushing his words together. Jack tosses the counted book behind him. Open the next one. Ten matches-

Fontaine moans, and the first jet of cum is inside Jack’s mouth, thick and salty. He pulls out, and the next spurts are over Jack’s lips and cheeks, the white liquid clinging to Jack’s face. Total four seventy two. Twelve matchsticks, total four eighty four. He wants to spit. The cum just drips down his face, out of and into his mouth, down his chin until it drips on the floor. Nine matchsticks, total four ninety three. 

He’s done coming, but Frank keeps rubbing his dick over Jack’s face, pushing the cum around and rubbing it into his skin. Jack drags his eyes away again, briefly, glaring up poisonously. Frank’s just smiling that shit-eating grin of it, his cock swiping across Jack’s cheek. He looks back down. Twenty matches, total five thirteen. 

Frank bumps his leg against Jack’s crotch, his shin rubbing against the bulge there, up and down, making Jack shudder at the sensation of physical contact against his hard cock. “Beg me for it.” 

“Please touch me, Mr Fontaine.” Jack begs, only because he’s been commanded to before, told he has to. His tone is dull, uninterested, his hands busy with the booklets. His hips hitch against the pressure and he does his best to hide the way his face twists when Frank pushes back. Jack doesn’t even bother to look at him, droning as he counts (nine matches, total five hundred and twenty two) and tosses another pack over his shoulder. “Let me come.” 

“You’re a real shit.” Frank laughs, and finally stops rubbing the cum around on Jack’s face. While he tucks himself away, Jack counts and his hips hitch forward now and then, pushing automatically against Frank’s leg. “What’s the count?”

“Total five hundred and thirty two.” He says, throwing the newest added book over his shoulders. It makes such a soft sound when it hits the growing pile, just out of sight. Jack shudders when Fontaine pushes hard up against Jack’s cock. His hands open the next book. He can see again, and he’s barely halfway through the pile. 

“Would you kindly jerk yourself off while you’re counting my matchbooks? And don’t wipe your face off until you’re all done.” He pats Jack’s cheek, the one least smeared with come. It’s already starting to dry. By the time this is over, he’s going to have to use his drinking water to scrub his face clean, or else risk sleeping with it on. 

Jack says nothing, a fuck-you on his tongue. He picks up the next book of matches with his right hand, the left shoving his waistband down and pulling his cock out. Zero matches, total five hundred and forty six. Jack squeezes himself tight and strokes himself quickly, trying to make this end as quickly as he can. 

Fontaine gives his hair another hard tug, jerking Jack’s eyes off the matchbook. He turns his head back and up, until he has to look at Fontaine. That grin’s still there on his smug face, those sharp eyes of his staring down at Jack. Jack stares through him, refusing to give him what he wants. Instead, he lifts the next book high and within eyesight. Eight matches, total five hundred and fifty four. It’s hard to coordinate it all, face turned up, one hand wasted touching himself, the other feeling on the floor for more books to lift, open one handed, and toss away. Twelve matches, total five hundred and sixty six. 

“Ain’t you ever get tired of keeping your trap shut? You didn’t always like giving me the cold shoulder.” His eyes spark and Jack knows it’s coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier looking up into Frank’s gleeful face and hearing Atlas talk to him. His face is sticky and he feels some of it dripping down his chin. Jack's eyes stay locked up on Frank's face, the wrong voice coming out of his mouth. “You used to be real sweet, didn’t you boyo? You were tripping over yourself to save me and my sweet family. Were you dreaming of how it’d feel when I put my arms around you and thanked you for all your hard work? Did you think I’d be grateful enough to ignore how desperately you were clinging to me?” 

Jack pulls a matchbook up, covering Frank’s face momentarily. Ten matches, total five hundred and seventy six. He squeezes his cock and strokes it harder, feeling it twitch in his hands at the sound of that voice. It’s a dirty trick, but that’s the only thing Frank has - dirty tricks and lies. 

“If he was real, he wouldn’t have given you anything once he got out, not the time of day, not a touch like this.” And Frank’s fingers run through Jack’s hair, stroking his scalp. Atlas’ voice flows over him, and Jack strokes himself faster. He knows it’s a lie. Jack’s had it rubbed in his face so many times now that he couldn’t fool himself even if he wanted to.

Four matches, total five hundred and eighty eight. He tosses the book. Frank’s face comes into view. 

Anything’s better than Frank. Even listening to a lie is better than having that sour slow drawl chewing on his mind while he’s jerking off. New matchbook up while Frank pets Jack’s hair, treating him like a dog with no teeth. Nine matches, total five hundred and ninety seven. He fists his cock and feels his balls starting to tighten. A little more, and he can come, and he can finish counting, and then he can clean his goddamn face-

“Look at you, pulling your pud over a leprechaun.” Frank’s voice cuts back in, dripping with scorn. Jack doesn’t slow down though, can’t slow down. “It’s real sad kid, how desperate you are for something that weren’t ever real. There ain’t nobody who wants you, nobody who cares about you, except for me. Ain’t you lucky you got me to take care of you.” 

Jack grits his teeth, trying to drown out what he’s saying, but he can’t. What hates about all those fucking commands is that he can’t ever have a moment to himself, he can’t tune Fontaine out for half a second. Jack’s held hostage to Frank’s endless torrent of bullshit and insults. One of these days, it’s going to backfire. One of these days, Frank’s going to slip. He’s going to say just the wrong thing, and then Jack’s going to wrap both of his hands around Frank’s neck and tear his head off his shoulders. 

Nineteen matches, total six hundred and thirty five. Toss it over his shoulder, stroke his cock, wobble on his knees as he tries to stay upright with his head pulled back. Frank’s got his other hand on Jack’s face, cupping it like they’re lovers. 

“You’re pathetic. It’s almost a shame I couldn’t let Ryan stick around long enough for him to see it was me turning the key in his wind-up son.” He swipes his fingers down Jack’s cheek and shoves them into his mouth. The salty taste of Frank’s cum floods his mouth again. Twenty matches, total six hundred and fifty five. Jack feels the build in him, his whole body tensing up as he teeters on the knife’s edge. “Suck my fingers, would you kindly.” 

Jack sucks the fingers in his mouth, head bobbing back and forth on them. It’s loud and wet, and he fists himself as fast as he dares, his free fingers feeling on the floor for another book of matches-

And it’s Atlas’ voice curling out of that bald head, but there’s tinges of Frank in it, an unmistakable smugness that could be no one else. “You count all these matches right, and next time I fuck you, I’ll let you believe Atlas is real and here to save you.” 

Jack’s face contorts around the fingers in his mouth, but it’s too late, the rest of him’s reacting. He comes hard, his body clenching up and the gut-punch of an orgasm ripping through him. Jack stays on his knees but only by dumb-luck, his fist crushing the book of matches in it, the other squeezing out every last drop onto the ground. Frank shoves his fingers in deeper and Jack gags on them, his hips still jerking forward desperately as he rides out one of the only bright spots to his otherwise grim life. 

When it’s done and he feels the warm glow fading, Fontaine pulls his fingers out of Jack’s mouth. They’re wet with spit, and he trades hands, running the wet one through Jack’s hair, messing it up. Jack raises up the crushed matchbook in his hand, flattening it out. Four matches, total six hundred and and fifty nine.

“Would you kindly clean that mess off the floor with your tongue?” Frank laughs halfway through the command, but his hands are off of Jack. He drops down on all fours, putting his mouth on the white gobs splattered on the floor, steadily licking it up even as he feels his calf muscles twitch unhappily. It’s humiliating, but it’s his own cum, and Jack finds that at least a little more tolerable. He’s messed up some of the matchbooks and he licks those clean, opening to count them before discarding them. 

Frank just watches a while and Jack’s waiting for him to give him some new command, but it seems like he’s had enough fun for a while. He waits until Jack finishes cleaning the floor and goes back to counting before he walks out of the room. Jack hears those shoes against the floor, the clank of the door shutting, and the same soft pacing sound as Frank heads away. His eyes are locked on the matchbooks. 

Jack’s face feels wet and gross, his cock hanging out of his pants. He opens the matches - twelve matches, total six hundred and sixty three. There’s still at least a hundred books to go. Jack manages to pause his work just long enough to tuck himself away before the fishhook yanks him back to his work. But. It’s a pause. It’s still a pause. 

One of these days, Frank’s going to slip up. Then Jack’s going to hold onto that pause for as long as he can and kill the asshole holding his strings. He just has to wait for the right moment.

Seven matches, total six hundred and seventy.


End file.
